


The Weather Outside is Frightful

by persnickett



Category: Live Free or Die Hard (2007)
Genre: Community: sexy_right, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-27
Updated: 2014-03-27
Packaged: 2018-01-17 05:26:33
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,313
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1375450
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/persnickett/pseuds/persnickett
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Vermont. Matt struggled to remember what in the hell could have possessed him to let John convince him it was a good idea to drive out to spend a weekend in Vermont, in the middle of a polar vortex, when neither of them knew how to put on a ski, much less how to use it as a viable, non-fatal mode of transportation. Down a mountain.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Weather Outside is Frightful

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the March Match-up challenge at sexy_right. The prompts I had to match up were 'snowed in' and 'that’s my plan'.

Matt snapped his laptop shut. This was hopeless. He blew on his hands and looked at the still-falling snow, starting to gather now on the window sill.  
  
His tablet wasn’t much good without a signal either, but he slipped it out of its case and checked for one again just in case.  
  
Nope.  
  
He rubbed his hands warmingly over his heavily sweater-clad arms, and in desperation, re-checked his phone.  
  
Nada.  
  
Vermont. Matt struggled to remember what in the hell could have possessed him to let John convince him it was a good idea to drive out to spend a weekend in Vermont, in the middle of a polar vortex, when neither of them knew how to put on a ski, much less how to use it as a viable, non-fatal mode of transportation. Down a _mountain_.  
  
Not that they had _seen_ a mountain yet. Even if they hadn’t come out to the middle of the god-forsaken woods, surrounded by towering pine trees that blocked out Wi-Fi and set off his allergies, the drive over hadn’t been exactly what you’d call scenic. In fact, the blizzard raging outside the car windows had whited the visibility out so close to pretty much nil, that Matt was surprised they’d made it here in one piece.  
  
Here. To frickin’ Vermont. In a ramshackle cabin miles out from the nearest rinky-dink glimmer of civilization, heated by a _wood stove_ of all things.  
  
Matt looked at John bent over the hearth, fiddling endlessly with twigs and kindling, and remembered that the mind-numbing blowjob delivered just moments before this folly of a trip was suggested, probably had something to do with how he had ended up here.  
  
Inwardly cursing the weakness of his own will, Matt levered himself up off the moth-eaten loveseat and picked up the tablet. Maybe if he tried a little closer to the window…  
  
All this overcast, fuzzy weather wouldn’t be helping matters much either, but it was still relentlessly, heartlessly snowing.  
  
“C’mon, just gimme two bars,” he muttered to the stubbornly greyed-out signal icon in the corner of the screen. “Two measly little bars.”  
  
Matt heard a snort and then the sound of another log being placed painstakingly on top of what would ostensibly, sometime this millennium, be a fire.  
  
He made his way back over to the doily-ridden couch and tossed the useless tablet down onto the hideous hand-crocheted afghan. He sighed, picked up his phone and wandered over to the window again.  
  
Zero bars. The snow on the sill was piling up against the glass now, leaving little patterns and curlicues in shades of white on white on white that would probably be pretty if they weren’t _made. Of. The. Devil_.  
  
“And we’re probably going to get snowed in,” Matt said, sounding reasonable and not at all hysterical.  
  
He heard the clunk of another log making its way to the top of the alleged fire. “Probably.”  
  
“Get stuck out here for days,” Matt went on. “Who knows how often they do snow removal out here?”  
  
The next sound he heard was a struck match and Matt turned around to the loud, avid sizzle of the tinder catching. John straightened up and dusted his hands off on the ass of his jeans, looking way too pleased for anybody stranded out here with a low likelihood of rescue and no communication with the outside world.  
  
“You know, if it were anyone but you, I’d say you planned this,” Matt theorized, with a gesture out the window. “If you weren’t so willfully ignorant about things like cell tower distribution and signal strength…”  
  
He was interrupted by a sound that wasn’t anything like the slowest fire known to mankind being built. It was more like the pop of a cork.  
  
“Still know how to read a weather report though,” John replied.  
  
Matt felt his mouth hanging open. The snow was still falling outside the window, but with the crackle of the fire starting to come to life behind John, and the matching twinkle starting to kindle in his eye – and that was definitely a bottle of champagne – the softly falling flakes started to seem a lot less horrifying and more— _no_. No, Matt was not even about to _think_ the word ‘romantic’. Looks like the jaunty, sideways one John was giving him now were how they ended up out here in the first place.  
  
“You knew!?” Matt exclaimed. “You knew this storm was coming and you still—”  
  
“Travel agent says this kind of weather is the best kind of ski-stuff,” John cut across him, leaning down over the rucksack at his feet to pull out a pair of tin cups. “Powdery. Nice n’ soft to fall in for us newb-os.”  
  
“It’s ‘noob’s,” Matt autocorrected, before he went on. “But. But John, I can’t even get a signal out here, how—”  
  
“Told you,” John cut in again, thrusting one of the cups into his hand. “We’re on vacation, Matty. No work.”  
  
“Ok,” Matt allowed, nodding and looking down into his camp cup of bubbly, “and I didn’t bring any. But, John. How am I going to know what’s going on in the real world? I can’t even read my forums, my inboxes are going to be spammed into oblivion, I have no access to games…”  
  
“Relax,” John said firmly, sipping appreciatively at his drink and putting out a hand for his shoulder.  
  
“That’s what I’m _saying_ ,” Matt said, glad to finally be getting his point across. “That’s how I relax. Without a connection, I can’t—”  
  
“Sure about that?”  
  
The hand at his shoulder had slipped inward to his neck. Rough fingers were sliding up the skin of his nape, tangling in his hair.  
  
“If your plan is to distract me with booze and sex—”  
  
But Matt never got to finish his sentence, owing to the sudden addition of an extra tongue in his mouth, tasting not unpleasantly of surprisingly expensive champagne. There was an arm around his waist too, and thighs – big, warming, muscly ones – pressing against his own, and a hand, sliding down, down his spine to cup promisingly around the curve of his ass, and squeeze.  
  
“How’s it working so far?”  
  
Matt was panting when they broke apart. John still had that naughty, jaunty twinkle to his eyes that never failed to land him in trouble. The fluffy white flakes were still drifting lazily down into growing pristine curlicues that looked anything but demonic now in the flickering glow of John’s perfectly built fire.  
  
“Uh—”  
  
“That’s what I thought,” John said, with a smirk. “Now c’mon, grab a towel. The agent told me they got a Jacuzzi on the balcony.”  
  
And with that, John stepped away from him, letting the still cool air rush in between them in a way that made Matt regret the loss of his warmth all the more. Then he reached into the rucksack next to them and pulled out one of two fluffy white terry towels. He flipped it over his shoulder, and without another word, turned and disappeared down the hall.  
  
Matt sighed, and sipped his champagne. The snow really was pretty. Dammit.  
  
He allowed himself a small smile into his cup, as he went in for another sip. John had splurged on the good stuff.  
  
“I didn’t bring a suit,” Matt called resignedly out into the hall.  
  
There was a rustling and a muffled _flump_ , and then something slid into view along the polished hardwood flooring of the hallway.  
  
John’s jeans.  
  
“Neither did I,” came the response, like a low, gravelly siren call.  
  
Matt grabbed his towel and turned to follow. Maybe some of this weekend wouldn’t be so bad after all.  
  
He even found he didn’t mind joining in, when the voice floating back to him from down the hallway began to hum a suspiciously Dean Martin-esque sounding tune.  
  
 _Let it snow, let it snow, let it snow…_


End file.
